by Antal Szerb
Mihály was so discomposed all he could ask was:
“How did you find my address?”
Éva motioned restlessly with her hand.
“I telephoned your brother, in Pest. Mihály, Ervin’s dead.”
“I know,” he said.
“How did you know?”
“Ellesley, the doctor, wrote to me. I know you also met him once, in Gubbio, in the house where the door of the dead was open.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“He nursed Ervin in his last hours, in the Foligno hospital. Here’s his letter.”
Éva read the letter and fell into a reverie.
“Do you remember his enormous grey coat,” she said, after a while, “and how he always turned the collar up as he walked along, with his head bowed? … ”
“And somehow his head always went in front of him, and he came after it, like those big snakes that throw their head forward and their bodies slither along behind … And how much he smoked! No matter how many cigarettes I put in front of him, they all went.”
“And how sweet he was, when he was in good humour, or tipsy … ”
Father Severinus vanished. In the dead man of Foligno only Ervin had died, the remarkable boy and dear friend and the finest memory of their youth.
“I knew he was very ill,” said Mihály. “I tried to persuade him to get himself seen to. Do you think I should perhaps have tried a bit harder? Perhaps I should have stayed in Gubbio and not left until something was done about getting him well?”
“I think our concern, our tenderness, our anxiety would never have got through to him—to Father Severinus. For him the illness wasn’t as it would be for other people—not a misfortune but rather a gift. What do we know about that? And how easy it would have been for him to die.”
“He was so used to the ways of death. In the last few years I think he dealt with nothing else.”
“All the same, it might well have been horrible for him to die. There are very few people who die their own, proper death, like … like Tamás.”
The warm orange glow from the lampshade fell on Éva’s face and it became much more like the face she had shown in those years in the Ulpius house when … when they played their games and Tamás and Mihály died for her, or at her hands. What kind of fantasy, or memory, might now be stirring in her? He clutched his hand to his aching, pounding heart, and a thousand things flitted through his head: memories of the sick pleasure of the old games, the Etruscan statues in the Villa Giulia, Waldheims’s explanations, the Other Wish and the death-hetaira.
“Éva, you killed Tamás,” he said.
Éva gave a start, her facial expression changed totally, and she clapped her hand to her forehead.
“It’s not true! Not true! How could you think it?”
“Éva, you killed Tamás.”
“No, Mihály, I swear I didn’t. It wasn’t me that killed him … you can’t see it like that. Tamás committed suicide. I told Ervin, and Ervin gave me absolution, as a priest.”
“Then tell me too.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you. Listen. I’ll tell you how Tamás died.”
Éva’s hand in Mihály’s was cold as ice. He too felt shivers of horror running through him, and his heart grew unspeakably heavy. Relentlessly they descended into the mines, the passageways, the pits, through brackish underground lakes until they reached the cave where, amid the blackness at the very centre of things, lurked the secret, and the spectre.
“You remember, don’t you, how it was. That suitor of mine, and how violent my father was, and how I asked him if I could travel with Tamás for a few days before I got married.”
“I remember.”
“We went to Hallstatt. The place was Tamás’s idea. The moment I arrived there I understood. I really can’t describe it … an ancient, black town, beside a dead, black lake. You see these hill towns in Italy too, but this was much darker, much more chilling, the sort of place where all you can do is die. Tamás had already told me on the way there that he was going to die soon. You remember, don’t you, the office … and how he couldn’t bear being torn away from me … and in particular, you remember, how he always longed for death, and you know, too, how he didn’t want to die in some random way, but prepared for, carefully …
“I know that anyone else would have reasoned with him, or sent off telegrams right and left, called for help from his friends and the police and the emergency services and whatever else one does. That was my first feeling too, that I ought to do something, I ought to call for help. I didn’t, and I watched his preparations with despair. But then suddenly it dawned on me that Tamás was right. How I knew this I can’t say … but you remember how close we always were, how I always knew what was going on inside him—and now I knew that he was beyond help. If it didn’t happen now, then some other time, soon; and if I wasn’t there then he would die alone, and that would be terrible, for both of us.
“Tamás realised I had become resigned to the idea and he told me the day when it would happen. That day we went boating on the dead lake, but in the afternoon the rain came down and we went into our room. There was never such an autumn since the world began, Mihály.
“Tamás wrote a farewell note, in meaningless phrases, giving no reasons. Then he asked me to prepare the poison, and to give it to him …
“Why did I have to do it? … and why did I do it? … you see, this is something perhaps only you can understand, Mihály. You played and acted with us, in those years.
“I’ve never felt any pangs of remorse. Tamás wanted to die, and there was no way I could have prevented it. And I didn’t even want to, because I knew it was better for him this way. I carried out his last wishes. I did the right thing. I’ve never regretted it. Perhaps if I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t given him the poison, he wouldn’t have had the strength of mind, he would have struggled with himself for hours and then taken it after all, and gone to his death ashamed of his lack of courage, shamefaced. But this way he killed himself bravely, without hesitation, because it was play-acting, he played at being killed by me, he was performing a scene we had rehearsed so many times at home.
“Afterwards he lay down calmly and I sat on the edge of the bed. When the drowsiness of death drew near, I pulled him to me and kissed him. And I carried on kissing him until his arm fell away from me. Those weren’t the kisses of a brother and sister, Mihály, it’s true. We were no longer brother and sister but someone who would live on and someone who was dying … then at last he was free, as I believe.”
For a long time they sat in silence.
“Éva, why did you send me that message not to look for you?” Mihály finally asked. “Why don’t you want to see me?”
“Oh, but don’t you see, Mihály, don’t you see, it’s impossible? … When we’re together it’s not just the two of us … At any moment Tamás might appear. And now Ervin too … I can’t be with you, Mihály, I can’t.”
She rose.
“Just sit down for one more minute,” he said, as softly as a man speaking in extreme anger. “Is it true you’re going to India?” he asked. “For a very long time?”
Éva nodded.
He wrung his hands.
“You really are going, and I shan’t see you any more?”
“That’s true. What will become of you?”
“There’s only one thing for me: to die my own, proper death. Like … like Tamás.”
They were silent.
“Do you seriously think so?” Éva asked eventually.
“Absolutely seriously. There’s no point in my staying in Rome. And there’s even less point in my going home. There’s no point in my doing anything.”
“Could I possibly be of help?” she asked, without enthusiasm.
“No. Or rather, there is a way, after all. Could you do something for me, Éva?”
“Well?”
“I’m afraid to ask, it’s so difficult.”
“Ask away.”
“�
�va … be at my side, when I die … like you were with Tamás, Éva.”
Éva considered.
“Would you do it? Would you do it? Éva, this is all I ask of you, and after it, nothing ever again, till the end of the world.”
“All right.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
XXIII
ERZSI ARRIVED BACK in Paris. She telephoned János, who came for her in the evening to take her out to dinner. But she found him rather distracted, and not especially pleased to see her. This suspicion grew stronger when he announced:
“Tonight we’re dining with the Persian.”
“Why? On our first night!”
“True, but I can’t do anything about it. He insisted on it, and you know how I have to butter him up.”
During the dinner János was mostly silent, and the conversation flowed between Erzsi and the Persian.
The Persian was talking about his homeland. There, love was a difficult and romantic business. Even today it was still the case that the young man in love had to climb a ten-foot wall and hide in the garden of his beloved’s father, to watch for the moment when the lady might walk by with her companion and they might exchange a few words in secret. But the young man was playing with his life.
“And this is a good thing?” asked Erzsi.
“Yes, a very good thing,” he replied. “Very good. People tend to value things much more highly when they have had to wait for them, to struggle and suffer. I often think Europeans don’t know what passion is. And really they don’t, technically speaking.”
His eyes glowed, his gestures were exaggerated but noble—untamed, genuine gestures.
“I am delighted you have returned, Madame,” he suddenly announced. “I was just beginning to be afraid you would stay in Italy. But that would have been a shame … I should have been very sorry.”
Erzsi, in a gesture of thanks, placed her hand for a moment on the Persian’s. Beneath it he closed his, making it like a claw. She was alarmed, and withdrew hers.
“I would very much like to ask you something,” continued the Persian. “Would you accept a small gift from me? On the happy occasion of your return.”
He produced a beautifully wrought gold tabatière.
“Strictly speaking it’s for opium,” he said. “But you can also use it for cigarettes.”
“I’m not sure on what basis I can accept this,” Erzsi said, in some confusion.
“On no basis whatever. On the basis that I am happy to be alive. On the basis that I am not a European, but come from a country where people make gifts lightly and with the best of intentions, and are grateful when they are accepted. Accept it because I am Suratgar Lutphali, and who knows when you will ever meet such a bird again.”
Erzsi looked inquiringly at János. She greatly admired the tabatière, and would have loved to accept it. János gave her a look of approval.
“Then I accept,” she said, “and thank you very much. I would accept it from no-one else, only you. Because who knows when I shall ever meet such a bird again in my life.”
The Persian met the bill for all three of them. Erzsi was a little irritated by this. It was almost as if János had found her for the Persian, as if, not to put too fine a point on it, he were his impresario, now withdrawing modestly into the background … but she dismissed this thought. Most likely János was again out of funds and that was why he allowed the Persian to pay. Or the Persian, with his oriental magnificence, had insisted on it. Besides, in Paris one person always paid.
That night János fell asleep early, and Erzsi had time to reflect:
“It’s coming to an end with János, that’s for certain, and I’m not sorry. What is interesting in him I already know by heart. I was always so afraid of him—that he might stab me, or steal my money. But it seems this fear was misplaced, and I’m a bit disappointed in him. What comes next? Perhaps the Persian? It rather seems he fancies me.”
She thought for a long time about what the Persian would be like at close quarters. Oh yes, he certainly was the real Tiger, Tiger, burning bright/In the forests of the night. How his eye glowed … It could be quite terrifying. Yes, quite terrifying. She really should give him a try. Love has so many unexplored landscapes, so many secret, wonderful, paradisal places …
Two days later the Persian invited them on an outing by car to Paris-Plage. They bathed in the sea, had dinner, and set out for home in the dark.
The journey was a long one and the Persian, who was driving, began to be more and more uncertain.
“Tell me, did we see that lake when we came?” he asked János.
János looked thoughtfully into the dark.
“Perhaps you did. I didn’t.”
They stopped and studied the map.
“The devil knows where we might be. I don’t see any kind of lake here.”
“I said at the time the driver shouldn’t drink so much,” said János in exasperation.
They drove further on, in some uncertainty. No-one, not a vehicle, in the whole countryside.
“This car’s not right,” said János. “Have you noticed it spluttering from time to time?”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
As they drove on the spluttering became quite pronounced.
Do you understand this contraption?” asked the Persian. “Because I don’t know the first thing about it. For me, the mechanics of a car are still the work of the devil.”
“Pull over. I’ll see what the trouble is.”
János got out, lifted up the bonnet, and started to investigate.
“The fan belt is completely ruined. How on earth could you drive around with a fan belt like that? You really should look at your car occasionally.”
Suddenly he swore, copiously and brutally.
“ … the belt’s torn! Now we’ve done it!”
“Now you’ve done it.”
“I’ve certainly done it. We can’t go on until we find another belt. You might as well get out.”
They got out. Meanwhile it had started to rain. Erzsi fastened up her waterproof coat.
The Persian was angry and impatient.
“Hell and damnation, what do we do now? Here we are in the middle of the main road, and, I’ve a strong suspicion, this isn’t the main road any more.”
“I can see some sort of house over there,” said János. “Let’s try our luck there.”
“What, at this time of night? By now the whole French countryside is asleep, and anyone who is up won’t be talking to suspicious-looking foreigners.”
“But there’s a light on,” said Erzsi, pointing to the house.
“Let’s try it,” said János.
They locked the car, and made off towards the house. A wall enclosed the hill on which it stood, but the gate was open. They went up to the house.
It was a very grand-looking building. In the darkness it seemed like a miniature château, bristling with marquesses and the noble families of France.
They knocked. An old peasant-woman thrust her head out of a small opening in the door. János explained what had brought them there.
“I’ll just have a word with their lordship and ladyship.”
Soon a middle-aged Frenchman in country attire stood before them. He looked them up and down while János repeated his account of what had happened. His face slowly brightened, and he became immensely friendly.
“God has brought you amongst us, Madame and Gentlemen. Come in and tell us all about it.”
He led them into an old-fashioned room, reminiscent of a hunting lodge, where a lady sat at a table over her embroidery, evidently his wife. The man briefly explained the situation and made his visitors sit down.
“Your misfortune is our good luck,” said the lady. “You can’t imagine how dull these evenings are in the country. But of course one can’t leave one’s estates at this time of year, can one?”
Erzsi felt somehow ill at ease. The whole mansion seemed unreal, or indeed too
real, like the set of a naturalistic play. And either these two people had sat there forever under the lamp, wordlessly waiting, or they had sprung into being at the precise moment of their arrival. Deep down she had the feeling that something was not quite right.
It emerged that the nearest village where they might find a garage was three kilometres off, but the hospitable couple had no-one they could send, as that night the male staff were sleeping out at the farmhouse.
“Do spend the night here,” suggested the wife. “There’s sleeping-room for all three of you.”
But János and the Persian were insistent that they still had to be in Paris that night.
“I am expected,” said the Persian, his discreet smile implying it was a question of a lady.
“There’s nothing else for it,” said János. “One of us will have to walk to the village. Three kilometres really isn’t much. Naturally I shall go, since I broke the fanbelt.”
“Not at all,” said the Persian. “I’ll go. Since you are my guests, I must see to it.”
“Well, let’s draw lots,” suggested János.
The draw determined that János should go.
“I’ll be straight back,” he said, and hurried off.
The host brought wine, his own vintage. They sat around the table, drinking and talking quietly, listening occasionally to the patter of rain on the window-pane.
Erzsi’s sense of unreality grew and grew. She no longer knew what the host and his lady were talking about. Probably they were explaining the tedious round of their country life, in tones as unvaried and soporific as the rain. Or perhaps it was the patter of rain that was so soothing; or the fact that she no longer belonged to anyone, anywhere. Here she sat at the end of the world, in a French château whose name she did not even know, and where she had arrived quite without rhyme or reason, for one might equally sit thus at the other end of the world, in another château, with no more cause or explanation.
Then she sensed that this was not what was soothing and lulling her, but the glance with which the Persian caressed her from time to time. It was a tender, warm, emotional glance, quite different from the cold blue gaze of a European eye. In the Persian’s glance there was animal warmth and reassurance. Soothing and lulling. Yes, this man loved women … but not merely as … he loved them not because he was a man, but because they were women, dear creatures, needing love. That was it: he loved them the way a true dog-fancier loves dogs. And perhaps that is the best love a woman can have.